#and the ending corroborates that

[gayofthefae]

I said it a lot more deep and moody here but in short and a much lighter tone:

Will is THAT BITCH. Be like Will. Be the boy who has boys he didn't even date never being able to look at their girlfriends the same way after you because you ruined love for them forever by being the best they'll ever achieve and can never have again or recreate with anyone else. Go off. Be like Will.

[wetslug]

Much To Think About

[onasnowynight]

if no one got me i know ada palmer got me can i get an amen

[black--sun]

That has him snorting and throwing a small toward Shiro. “Like you’d do any different in his position.” If a little exhaustion is all he’s left with, he made out well in Ichigo’s opinion. “He got what he was after.”

Ichigo clicks off the light, leaving just the small bedside lamp on before crawling in. Shiro seems more relaxed. There isn’t enough space left in the bed to leave much between them, so he doesn’t try. It leaves his thigh pressed to Shiro’s while they talk. 

He hates hearing Shiro talk about not having anyone to count on, but there’s nothing he can do for him that he’s not already doing. “We’ll figure it out.” Not that that will help after Shiro goes back to his life. “What about your partner? Can you trust him?” He trusts him enough to keep him around for more than just for sex apparently.

Ichigo smirks again and shakes his head, amused. “You’re not wrong, but I’m hoping to keep you out of the fray. These guys I’m bringing are…” He searches for a way to say it that won’t leave Shiro discouraged. “Loose canons. All of them. And crazy. But they’re good at what they do. The most you should have to worry about is if we get everyone. It might take a while to ferret every person out.”

He glances over at Yuu and grunts a quiet laugh, before disregarding him again. He shuts his phone screen off and sets his phone down, taking another sip of his drink half out of habit from it being in his hand. "That's what he gets for trying to keep up." The sex or the drinking, is up to Ichigo to decide. But maybe both.

He watches Ichigo climb into bed beside him. It aches, but it's also such a welcome and comfortable sight. He's got just enough alcohol in his system right now to be more comforted than distressed by the whole thing.

He snorts quietly, "I don't have private security and the more I think about it, the fewer people I got that I actually trust. So no. Just me." He shrugs, taking another drink. His glass is almost empty again. "I'm better than most anyway." There's a reason why Yhwach always sent him after people he didn't like. And if Shiro had finally met his match and got himself killed, well that probably would have just been a bonus. Which is a depressing reminder that no one really wants him around, except maybe his on again off again unlabeled partner that he left at home alone. Ouch.

He finishes off the rest of his drink in one swallow.

[visenyaism]

daniel molloy being a #imwithclaudia girl from the very “she makes you sound like two whiny existential queens” start to the very “everything about claudia from this point on is without written corroboration” end. real recognizes real

[miedei]

nonexistent rizz

the team is shocked to see that… early seasons!spencer pulls?? and he has pulled???? (aka, the team discovers that early seasons!spence has a girlfriend)

a/n: first cm fic!!! super indulgent, deffo way longer than it had to be but I don’t care, I love love love the dynamic of the s1/s2 team and I NEEDED to write it (look at '#mystery girl!au' on my blog to see more musings about them <3)

cw: alcohol consumption, reader referred to as a woman, reader is around spencer’s age in s1/s2 (23-24), completely inaccurate early 2000s technology i think, cuties being cute, not edited in any way

wc: 2k

part two | part three | mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

“‘O Keefe’s! My wonderful, wonderful sweethearts, we are going out!” The moment the team steps out of the elevator, Penelope is bombarding them, hands moving wildly as words seem to tumble out of her mouth. “And yes, Hotch, I am sure we have no cases lined up yet, and yes, I’m sure JJ can corroborate that the moment she gets to her office and no, you may not stay behind, tonight is compulsory. That stands for you too, Gideon!”

Hotch hasn’t even opened his mouth, shaking his head in defeat as he takes in Garcia’s determined face. Under the watchful eyes of the team, his shoulders slump, a tired hand scrubbing down his face. “Fine. We all have to finish our reports, but if we’re all done in half an hour, we can go. Gideon?” He turns his face, hoping for Gideon to find a way to bunk off, but there’s a glint of amusement in the older man’s eye. “Sounds like there’s no getting out of it.” With that, he walks off, to his office. 

Penelope whoops excitedly, “Okay! That means we’re all going! That’s the first time since Gideon came back,” but her face sets slightly when she meets Spencer’s eye. “No. No, Baby Genius, you will not do this to me,”

“Garcia, I have pl-” “No! You are coming out with us, and we’re going to have a great time, and whatever Russian indie film you were going to watch will still be there for you tomorrow. Okay? No more complaining, baby, you know I won’t listen.” With a pat on his shoulder, she flounces off. Defeated, he doesn’t move from the elevator area, shrugging helplessly when Elle, JJ and Morgan brush past him to the bullpen. 

With a sigh, he takes out his phone, pressing his newly-programmed speed dial and bringing the phone to his ear. From Derek’s vantage point in the bullpen, he can see Spencer, pacing back and forth in front of the elevator doors, and he can see the moment whoever is on the other side picks up. The younger man’s face lights up, like when he’s on the receiving end of a rare Hotch smile out in the field, but more spirited, buoyant. Only snippets of the conversation float in through the slightly-ajar glass doors, but they’re enough to give him pause, and still his fingers above his keyboard.

“...Garcia’s got this plan for us all, and…”

“Yes, I know, I do like going out with them, but that’s not what I wanted to do…”

“...I took the metro tonight, so I think I’ll just… Really? You want to?”

At that point, Spencer turns, his voice muffling, and keeping Derek from his vested interest in his conversation. But what little he heard is more than enough to pique his interest. He flicks a pencil onto Elle’s desk. “Greenaway. You know if pretty boy’s mom is in town or something?” Elle looks up from her monitor, head tilting, “Not that I know of. Besides, doesn’t she not like flying? I don’t think he’d have her come here. Why do you ask?”

Derek doesn’t reply, simply gesturing to the glass doors, where Spencer is walking inside, his mouth twitching to conceal his smile. His steps are measured, like he’s trying to feign calm. He settles at his desk, hunching his back in a way that can’t be comfortable, typing rapidly as his knee jiggles up and down. Elle turns back to Derek, eyes wide with wonder. 

“That is not how you look getting off the phone with your mother.”

The incident is quickly forgotten, however, when the BAU team are crammed into a booth in the back of the low-lit bar. Penelope has roped Hotch into helping her bring drinks back from the bar, and the rest are speaking a little too loudly, arms flinging and bumping into the empty glasses littering the table. 

All except for Gideon, who, despite having had three glasses of whiskey, is still just as calm and observant as he is fully sober. It is this that causes him to zero in on Spencer, sitting across from him, sandwiched between Morgan and the newly-returned Garcia. 

There’s a pink flush across his high cheekbones, and he’s incredibly giggly, all things that are completely expected for him, a few drinks in. However, what the experienced profiler picks up on, are his darting eyes. Spencer can often be found staring into the middle distance, or, since Gideon taught him the importance of building rapport with victims and officers alike, trained steadily on the space between someone’s eyebrows, but this time it’s different.

His eyes flick to whoever’s talking, feigning interest, but every few seconds, it turns back down to his lap, where something is clutched in the hand he keeps under the table. If it were Hotch, Gideon would know with absolute certainty that he was watching his phone, waiting for a text from Haley.

But this is Spencer. The youngest person he knows. The youngest person he knows whose technological knowledge is somehow worse than Gideon’s own. What on earth would have Spencer acting- 

Oh. Gideon nearly gasps at Spencer’s movements. On his fifteenth peek down at his lap, Spencer stiffens, then draws his hand up from his lap to get closer to his face. It is his phone, and Spencer Reid has somehow learned to text as quickly as Morgan does. His thumbs fly over the buttons on his phone, and he can’t hold back the smile that spreads on his face.

Gideon’s eyes furrow, and he can’t hold back from nudging Hotch’s shoulder, pointing in Spencer’s direction. Hotch pulls himself away from his conversation with JJ, and Gideon can see his expression morph from mild interest, to confusion, to complete bewilderment. After a beat, his face turns to meet Gideon’s and his normally stoic demeanor is shaken, eyes wide. 

Spencer, however, doesn’t even notice his mentors’ faces, still tapping away at his phone and craning his neck to look around the bar. 

It’s a while later, when JJ has pulled the team (minus Hotch and Gideon) onto the dance floor, a few drinks past tipsy at this point. She’s laughing out loud, holding Elle’s hand and twirling her under her arm. Penelope and Derek are mock-waltzing, bursting into laughter every few steps, and Spencer… 

JJ pauses for a moment, before Elle pulls her into moving again. Her head whips around, trying to find Spencer, before giving up. He must be back at the table with Hotch and Gideon, he was never very comfortable dancing anyway. 

The four on the dance floor quickly devolve into a mess, swapping partners until they’re all dizzy and laughing. JJ and Penelope are shimmying back and forth together, when Penelope gasps a little, tapping JJ’s arm without ceasing her movements. “Jayj! Look, see that girl at the bar?” She gestures subtly at a younger woman, probably in her early twenties, wearing a purple wrap top that has JJ sighing wistfully. 

“Pen, I think I’ve seen my soulmate. Would it be weird for me to crawl over there and beg her for her shirt?” Penelope giggles, gripping JJ’s forearms so they can sway to the music dramatically. “Just a little, my sweet. How about we go ask her where it’s from, though? I think that would be a little more…” She goes uncharacteristically silent, and it has JJ twisting to see what shut her up. However, Penelope tightens her grip on her arms, keeping her from moving. 

“JJ. My love, my heart. You’ll always be honest with me, won’t you?” Now she’s worried. JJ nods quickly, deciding to just focus on Penelope. “Yeah, Garcia, of course. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m seeing things, and you are one of the most qualified people in the world to tell me if I’m going crazy. I’m going to turn us around, and you’re going to look at the woman in that gorgeous top, and you are going to either scream, or send me off to Hotch for a psychological evaluation.” Her tone is serious, hushed, and JJ nods solemnly. 

The intricate plan is conducted, and JJ is now facing the bar, her eyes searching for the girl, when she stiffens, sucking in a breath. “Yes! I’m not crazy, you see it right? What is going on!” Penelope smacks her arm repeatedly, but JJ can’t tear her eyes away from it. It being something she couldn’t possibly have prepared herself for, not in her wildest imaginations.

The girl is sitting on a barstool, sipping at a cocktail, and chatting to… Spencer. Spencer, the BAU’s Spencer, child-prodigy-lovable-dork-awkward-mess Spencer Reid, is stood in between her legs, smiling down at Mystery Girl without a hint of fear. It’s devastatingly sweet, his eyes soft in a way she’s never seen before, as he nods along with whatever she’s saying. Penelope jolts her out of her trance with a tap to the arm, JJ whispering, “He’s so… carefree.” 

That’s the only way to describe it. He’s looking down at her, eyes locked onto hers, and he’s still. His hands aren’t tapping, his leg isn’t shaking. He’s just looking at her. 

JJ can feel Morgan and Elle huddle near her, questioning Penelope about what they’re looking at, before shutting up as they see it. She hears them take twin gasps, and huddle even closer. They stand in silence, surely a hindrance to the people dancing, but they can’t tear themselves away. 

It’s only when Spencer shatters their worlds once more that they finally find themselves able to move. Four pairs of eyes follow him, as he leans even further towards Mystery Girl, and they all bulge at once when he raises a hand, carding his fingers through her hair. Penelope whispers, “oh my god”, Elle grips JJ’s arm in a vice grip, and Derek makes an unseemly noise, before gripping their arms, tugging them back to the booth. 

They collapse in the seats, faces pale as they look at each other, next to a very confused Gideon and Hotch. 

“What? What is it?” Hotch questions them, brow furrowed deeply. None of them speak, however. Only Elle lifts a weak hand to point. She directs their attention to the sight at the bar, and they all turn back to it, gasping once again. They’re… “kissing,” Derek breathes, shocked. Hotch and Gideon stiffen, but still crane their heads until their eyes fall on what has rendered their highly trained team speechless. And their reactions are just as silent.

Mystery Girl has stood up, her arms around Spencer’s neck, and he’s leaned down to meet her lips, hands braced on her hips. It’s honestly not that scandalous, a lazy, casual kiss that they part from with twin smiles, but the FBI agents can’t handle it. They don’t say a word, straining their ears to hear whatever she is saying as he holds her hand (Penelope lets out a squeak at that), and walks with her towards the door, not even noticing that his coworkers have returned to the booth. Her voice is low, but Hotch manages to pick up a few of the words. 

“...go home and watch that movie I was telling you about? Metropolis, I think you’ll really…” And they’re off. Spencer Reid has left a bar, holding hands with a girl (that he’s apparently spoken to multiple times? Who refers to a place as home for both of them?), acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

The group sits in silence, unable to muster a comment, when Penelope’s phone buzzes. She checks it, and silently turns the screen over so they can all read it. 

BOY GENIUS: Hey Garcia. I wasn’t feeling well so I decided to go home. See you Monday :-)

“What?”

[phantomrose96]

I know Jon acknowledges this but it’s funny to me that A Guest for Mr. Spider is just genuinely the LEAST credible statement out of all 81 we’ve heard so far.

Like okay, Mr. Statement Giver, you were a very young child, and you just read a spooky children’s book, and your childhood bully stole it from you. And you’re oh-so convinced that the way your bully walked off was because the book’s monster was calling him and the house he went into belonged to the book’s monster and the monster got him the end.

No one else who can corroborate any events. No evidence whatsoever. A hearsay statement from childhood that sounds like a normal interaction played-up by the imagination of a scared kid frightened by his scary book.

The only evidence in Jon’s favor is the fact that the book was a Leitner. But that’s basically tautological. The only reason Jon was lending extra credibility to Leitner-book statements is BECAUSE of his encounter with A Guest for Mr. Spider.

The absolutel audacity of Mr. Jonathan Archivist Sims to show up with not just AN unverifiable statement, but the MOST unverifiable statement to date. Statement ends.

[teambyler]

Let's talk about #WallGate

The Upside Down appears to have been created the night Will went missing. I just read a theory from @MarianDalton on YouTube that Will has powers and in 1983 he created an Upside Down version of Hawkins because he wanted to get back home...

Whether or not that's exactly it, there's SOME connection between the Upside Down and Will. And destroying the Upside Down and saving Hawkins might be directly connected to Will.

Remember the lyrics to "Heroes" about forbidden love and kissing at the Berlin Wall?

Well, it now looks like the Upside Down has a wall:

It's possible that the Upside Down's wall maintains its structure, and destroying it is key to ending the UD and saving Hawkins. Since the Upside Down and Will are likely connected, what if the UD is connected somehow to Will's psychology and his likely coming-out arc this season? A place he created to wall himself in, a seemingly safe place, but also where he's closed off from the world because he can't be his true self? (His CLOSET?)

Ross Duffer has said about season 5, "This emotional arc for [Will] is what we feel is going to hopefully tie the whole series together."

One theme of the show has been the prejudice and fear of Hawkins. What if the physical wall parallels the metaphorical walls in Hawkins? After all, "conformity is killing the kids." We have an episode titled "Escape from Camazotz" which in A Wrinkle in Time was a hive-mind planet...

And what if the key to Vecna's power over Will is the fact that Will never thinks he'll find love? The show establishes that love is what frees people from Vecna.

Will and Mike are standing by the wall in the UD, and Will is about to use his connection to the UD to destroy it and save Hawkins, but he has to destroy himself along with it. He tells Mike to leave or he'll die, which he refuses to do: Mike had promised Will they'd be a TEAM. Finally, Will, to explain himself, makes clear he loves Mike, and he couldn't go on if Mike died (my own favorite theory... mine lol). Mike says NO: he will die with Will.

When Will doesn't understand why Mike's doing this, MIKE KISSES HIM.

The key to tearing down the wall is that Will sees he is loved. The wall is about to fall.

But they don't know that yet; they kiss and hold each other tightly because it's their last moments alive. The lyrics to "Heroes" suddenly become perfect:

Standing, by the wall And the guns, shot above our heads And we kissed, as though nothing could fall And the shame, was on the other side Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever Then we could be Heroes, just for one day.

-teambyler

P.S. See my follow-up post about a behind-the-scenes photo corroborating this theory!

[justinsentertainmentcorner]

Amanda Marcotte at Salon (06.02.2025):

History will no doubt look upon the outcome of the Johnny Depp v. Amber Heard with the same skepticism now applied to O.J. Simpson's 1995 acquittal after charges of his killing his wife and her friend. The 2022 trial, in which Depp sued Heard for defamation after she made anonymous allusions to domestic violence in a 2018 Washington Post op-ed, was a farce — by design. Depp hired publicist Melissa Nathan, who famously bragged she could "bury anyone," to seed social media networks with misogynist rumors about Heard, who had been 25 when she started dating the 48-year-old movie star. The New York Times later reported on Nathan's alleged tactics, based on court documents from a similar campaign against actress Blake Lively. The strategy, according to the Times, is "waging a largely undetectable smear campaign in the digital era," which succeeded when "online criticism of the actress skyrocketed." The evidence in Depp v. Heard, in a sane world, should have favored Heard. His claim to damages was that Heard's op-ed led to him losing his lead role in "Pirates of the Caribbean." A Disney executive denied this on the witness stand, and Depp's longtime talent agent testified that Depp's erratic behavior was what soured his reputation on set. As Jessica Winter at the New Yorker wrote during the trial, Heard produced "a trove of text messages, witness statements, and photos of injuries — which, she says, corroborate her allegations of abuse." Depp had previously sued a British tabloid for calling him a "wife-beater," and he lost, even though British law favors plaintiffs in defamation cases to an outrageous degree. The judge described Heard's side of the story as "substantially true."

[...] As that last sentence suggests, the case ended up being tried in the court of public opinion, where the preposterous story that Depp was the real victim took hold. Instructions to the jurors to ignore the crescendo of support for Depp outside the courtroom didn't matter, leading to a $15 million judgment in his favor. It's not clear how much of the pro-Depp clamor was seeded by his hired guns, but in the end, they were pushing on an open door. As journalist Kat Tenbarge reported for NBC at the time, content creators for TikTok and YouTube found that spreading sexist rumors about Heard was like printing money. There was an immense amount of public hunger in 2022 to forget all the lessons of the #MeToo movement, and instead fall back into the comfortable belief that sexism is a myth, women just make up stories for attention, and it's accused men who are the real victims. 

This week is the third anniversary of the day that a jury favored Depp over Heard. Looking back, the whole situation can be read as a portent for the 2024 election of Donald Trump. The public outpouring of support for Depp reflected a widespread willingness to choose self-delusion over facing hard truths, especially about the dangers of male domination. For a lot of people, it's exhausting hearing about how many women are beaten, raped, killed, harassed, and otherwise oppressed. It can feel much easier to believe it's all just made up. It's simpler to believe that ours is a just system, even as men still hold the lion's share of power and money. It's comforting to imagine that men react to all their privilege with grace and gratitude, and ignore the reality where all too many abuse women because they can. Trump was selling the same message to his voters: Wouldn't it be easier to live in a fantasy where patriarchy is all kittens and rainbows? Isn't it easier to live in the lie than confront the hard truth?

[...] The far-right website Daily Wire spent an astonishing amount of money promoting anti-Heard propaganda during the trial, which confused many people at the time. The Daily Wire is a political outfit, so why would they care about celebrity gossip that doesn't seem to have any partisan value to it? But they understood that Heard v. Depp did benefit Republicans, especially Trump. The entire circus was useful for convincing people that it's okay to choose disinformation over the truth, especially when the facts make you feel bad. It all goes back to George Orwell's insight with the "two-minute hate" in "1984." Self-delusion takes practice. Defending Depp was boot camp for the real test: supporting the lie that Donald Trump would make a fine president. 

The Depp v. Heard trial ended up being a decent predictor of the increased support for Trump in 2024 among young males.

[ilium-ilia]

John Price is the type of professor to attend each lecture with a mug in his hand and glasses low on his nose.

Crisp slacks, salt and pepper hair, and a button up shirt—he likes order. Doesn't mess with the power point presentations or online assignments. His lecture hall sports an old chalkboard and all of his assignments will be handed in on paper, attendance is necessary to pass, and exams are to be taken during class time, no exceptions.

He is also—unfortunately—the most infuriating professor you've ever had the misfortune of signing up for.

Each assignment you turn in gets handed back with scrawling handwriting that reads see me after class in blood-red ink. He's insufferably predictable in the way he sits in his office, sprawled back in his chair, fingers tapping on the table as he waits for you. For a minimum of ten minutes he forces you to sit across his desk so he can scrutinize you with never-ending questions about your work as proof that you know what you're talking about.

You hate the red tinge of his cheeks, and that tight-lipped smile and curt nod he sports as he listens to your impromptu presentation. None of your classmates can corroborate Professor Price's antics—it seems targeted. Yet, at the end he always tells you what a wonderful job you've done and to keep it up before handing your paper back to you with a smile, sending you on your way.

What he doesn't tell you—however—is that there is a long line of zero's sitting in his grade book beneath your name. How is he supposed to let such star pupil slip out of his grasp so soon?

[saduko]

HARD TO MISS

Lando Norris x Driver!Reader 7.9K words

Summary: You had driven sick many times before, but never sick enough to retire from a race. Now Lando was worried about you and how the media was going to react. But maybe this was just about the best thing that could of happened to him. Or in which, reader gets sick during the Spanish GP race and has to face the looming media presence after retiring early with a newfound anger she's never experienced. She was a mess of emotions, acting so different, or maybe it wasn't just her being strange.

Teammates, established relationship, an unexpected surprise?? Note: this unfortunately is a re-upload because my dumbass literally deleted the post the first time I posted it despite it being up for days. Yes I'm mad, and no this isn't edited because of it.

The heat of the Spanish sun beat down on the track, the asphalt shimmering with a relentless intensity that seemed to seep through the cockpit. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, your knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your focus on the race ahead, hot, fast breaths heaving through your helmet like a symphony. The familiar roar of the engine, usually a comforting sound, felt more like a distant hum as yet another wave of nausea rolled through you.

This wasn’t the first time you’d raced under less-than-ideal conditions, but today felt different. The adrenaline that usually sharpened your senses now seemed to amplify the queasiness in your stomach, every bump and turn on the track making it harder to push the discomfort aside. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising bile as you powered through another corner, the car responding to your every command despite the growing turmoil within.

The twisting and turning of the track seemed endless, each lap blurring into the next as your vision narrowed, tunnel-like, around the path ahead. You knew you needed to speak up, to let your team know something was wrong, but the words felt heavy on your tongue, weighted down by the fear of admitting weakness. But you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"I'm not feeling very well."

The twisting and turning of the track was making it hard for you to settle your stomach enough to find your voice, but when you had, there was a long silence on the other end. Ears alert with anticipation as nothing came through, before the thick accent of your engineer, Marlow finally sounded in with a panicked voice, "Are you feeling faint?"

"Not really.” You huffed. “I feel quite nauseous though. My stomach is not cooperating."

There was a short silence through your head piece before a shuffle was heard on the other side, followed by a concerned, "Should we retire the car?"

The suggestion shakes you and a quick puff of air leaves your mouth in order to hopefully settle the turning in your stomach, though you think it might have translated more as annoyance to your team despite the intention. You couldn't help but hope it hadn't come off too harshly, however the forceful tone of your next words certainly didn’t do much to calm the idea. "No! I'm not retiring the car... No, I'm okay."

"Please love, If you can't finish there's no shame in retiring. You're not letting anyone down, we understand-!" He knew how stubborn you were and he really didn't want the question to feel like the hit to the ego he knew you would take it as, but it was hard when everyone knew this race was what was separating you from top 3 and the rest in the championship. They knew it wouldn't be that easy, quickly corroborated by the frustrated grunt you let sound through the line.

Your foot braces against the accelerator, bearing down full force as you take the straight right after corner 4 at full speed, you weren't retiring. Subjective to your own harsh perception of yourself, retiring - no matter the circumstance - was one of the most culpable failures you could commit. It was never a rewarding feeling, and whether or not to retire from a race like this was an indisputable no. Six years into the sport and you had never retired from a race on your own accord. Today would not be the first.

"I'm okay for now."

There was no arguing with a driver going over 300 kilometers an hour, and so the team let your decision chart as they sat back and kept on with their roles, no different than before. Except for one thing, noting the conversation, they all made undisclosed motions to keep an extra close eye on the driver cam.

And so the race continued as 10 laps went by, 10 very shaky laps with countless immoderate wobbles, a few oversteers around a couple corners and a very close call with Carlos who made quick work of letting the communal radio know how exactly he felt about that, words that were quickly relayed to you. Though his accent was warm, his words were anything but kind and usually you would have taken it on the chin, laughed at his profanities and apologized with a quick witty comment to follow, but your team watched as you only let out a harrowing breath and shook your head. You obviously were not on your A-game and your entire team could see that.

So with all this, it came as no surprise when the silence in their headphones was abruptly interrupted with the blaring sound of your wheels against the track, followed by your voice, quick yet strained, echoing through the radio.

"I think I'm gonna be sick, guys."

With not a moment to spare, Marlows eyebrows furrowed down at your words, worry clear in his voice as he pressed down on the radio button. And though his words were mostly phrased as a question emphasizing the choice as your own, it was still hard to miss the pleading tone in his voice as he spoke loudly into the headpiece, "Are we retiring? It’s your call, love."

Your end of the radio was silent as the words rang through your headset, though not for lack of connection as the sound of your wheels barrelling against the tar never ceased. They knew you were still there, just not vocalizing your thoughts. They had no doubt this was a tough decision. A huge part of this sport was pride; pride in your team, pride in your car, pride in your abilities. And being the only woman on the grid meant your pride was strong and the backlash was inevitably more harsh when things went wrong. 

It was already hard enough for a driver to admit they needed to back out of a race, let alone for a driver who had something to prove and everything to lose. It was a decision they knew you were avoiding complying with. You had been complaining about feeling ill for days leading up to the race and yet insisted on racing regardless. They knew this was important to you, and to back out now, after making it so far already? Your heart was strong, and your head stronger. But for this one time, it seems your stomach was the strongest, and your nausea was taking the reins of this particular race. And so you bit your lip, hoping to keep the bile from rising for just a little while longer. “I need to stop. I’m retiring the car. I can't help it.”

As disappointing as ending a race early was, your team couldn’t deny the shred of relief that washed over them as you, for once, chose your health first. As fun as racing was, and as rewarding as a race in points felt, none of it was ever worth the increased risk to your safety. They would much rather you all woozy up in the medic bay with a DNF, than halfway to unconsciousness with a p8 finish. This certainly wasn’t your best race anyways, probably one the lowest you’d been in points this season. 

As you began your way around your last lap towards the pit lane, your mind raced with all the dreadful thoughts a DNF brought, the pit in your stomach rearing into a sizeable hole which would of left you feeling melancholy if the twisting and turning hadn’t trumped the discontent. 

As each second passed, you could feel whatever it was you had eaten for lunch earlier with Lando rising higher and higher. High enough in fact, that you found it necessary to press the radio button once more with a request. “Have a bag ready for me when I pull up, please.”

To which a compliant, “Copy.” sounded suit.

It wasn’t too much longer until your orange car could be seen sweeping down the pit lane, no hesitation in your steering as you made a harsh turn into your spot by the garage door. The pit team were prepared to make haste in their actions, ready to prop your car onto the jack in order to wheel it into the garage only to be stopped when two quick hands extended up as you braced yourself up against the halo and pulled yourself out of the seat.

At this point, you were hyper aware of the all the people surrounding you, as well as the multitude of cameras pointing directly at you, recording your every move for all the judgeful eyes to see, and yet you found not a single cell in yourself which cared as you leaned over the car and called out for your assistant, who quickly met you with a large black bin in tow. 

You quickly grabbed for it, pulling your front over the side of the car as far as you could in order to hide yourself from the view of the cameras. And out it came, a slurry of lunch which you had been so looking forward to at the time, and quickly regretting now as it all escaped your stomach.

What in the world had you feeling so ill in the first place? It felt like it had been lightyears since you had felt sick enough to actually puke, and god did you not miss this feeling. Had you eaten something bad earlier in the day? Maybe. But everything you ate Lando had eaten too, so wouldn’t he be sick as well? Well, it’s not really like you could ask him, you thought as you looked up just in time to see him overtake George on the big screen. He looks a little busy. And you should be busy too.

The thought seared through your mind as you spat into the bin, you should be racing too, but at least you feel a little better now that it’s come out; though not completely. Your stomach still churned a little and now your throat burned but you guessed it was better than crashing. You had already nearly done that just by being on the track a little too long and now you were definitely going to receive an earful from Sainz when he finally crossed the checkered flag and found you inevitably moping. 

However, you quickly realized that Carlos was actually the least of your worries and the only person you really had to fear was Lando, for when he heard about the outcome of your race, you were sure to face the lecture of your life. He had been warning you for days leading up to it not to participate. You were obviously unwell and he was aware of the dangers an unwell driver faced under the taxing conditions of a race but you were stubborn, insisting you would be fine. Look at you now. Head in a bin with cameras all around and a bruised ego. 

There was only a little time now until the race ended to recover before everyone came pummeling at you with questions. 

The wheel was starting to feel heavy in his hands and the rubbing of the HANS device against his neck was really starting to hurt. They were approaching the end stretch of the race and as the last 15 laps commenced, Lando couldn’t help but feel a little relieved knowing this would be over soon. This was undoubtedly a tough race. 

From lights out till now, he’d managed to pull from P5 to P4 and had every intention of passing Lewis for a podium position, soon enough he’d be in DRS range but for the time being, he was focused on catching up. The world around him had become mute, he hadn’t even looked up at the grand screen once, all he knew was the car.

So he had almost jumped in his seat when the chime sounded. Just as he began slowing around the final corner leading up to the line for his next lap, the sound of an incoming radio signal had his ears perking in anticipation. Were they planning on pitting him again? Sure he was definitely pushing a little too hard against his tires- not really doing his best at conserving them but he was so close to a podium position and he just needed a little bit more force-

“Lando mate,” Will’s voice sounded through his ears, his tone a little hesitant which left Lando biting his lip with anticipation. Please don't box. “I’ve just been informed by Marlow that y/n has retired.”

Lando's heart nearly fell into his stomach as the words registered in his brain. You retired?! Now thinking about it, you did start only a single position behind him and he hadn’t really seen all that much of you during the race. What happened? “Did she crash?!”

“No Lando, she's okay, it was voluntary. She wasn’t feeling well, I don’t think.” 

“You don’t think?”

“She’s okay Lando, just under the weather.”

Not feeling well? Under the weather? You’d raced a multitude of times before whilst under the weather. Each time he’d advise you not to race, and each time you’d ignore him, swearing up and down you’d be fine- and to Lando’s consolation each time you were fine. You’d come out the other side with a smile, no qualms or grievances and you would save your complaints for him afterwards, when no one else was around to judge. As you had done before, he expected the same this time. You’d never let a little ailment set you back, especially not let it affect you enough to retire. Not unless it really was bad.

Lando’s thoughts were soon interrupted by Will’s voice once more, his tone dismissive, implying the conversation had reached its end and no more discussion would be had about it. “We will contact you again if anything happens.”

And despite Lando’s dismay, he complies. There were still a good 15 laps left of the race ahead and he had a lot of catching up to do, a lot of competitive driving to be had. His focus couldn’t be elsewhere, but what was he supposed to do knowing his sick fiancé has just pulled herself out of a race? What was he supposed to do when he knew you well enough to understand how prideful you could be, and how poor you had to feel to choose to retire?  

He really tries to not let it bother him. During the next lap, he tries to not let it bother him as he forces himself to look anywhere else but the jumbo screen in hopes of a possible update on your condition. He tries to not let it bother him in the lap after that as the team radios in to discuss possible strategies regarding the oncoming overtake he will perform, and he tries to not let it bother him during the lap after that one when he finally passes Lewis. Now 3 laps have passed but he just can't get the questions about you off his mind. It is bothering him. He shouldn’t be distracted, especially while he’s in a podium position but he can’t help it. 

So as he crosses onto the next straight, he finds himself radioing in with the question that had been eating away at him since the news broke. “Uh.. Any updates on y/n? Is she alright?”

There's a considerable moment of silence on Mclaren’s end of the line, the team were honestly tied on what to tell the man and what not to. You weren’t exactly in optimal condition, and word around was slightly worrisome regarding your state. You were okay, but definitely not well, they knew because they had caught the treacherous sounds of your gags a few more times since the first echoing through the mclaren garage. 

As your fiance, he deserved to know these details, but as a driver, they knew it wasn’t smart to worry him. What were they to say as to not stress him out in an already extremely stressful situation? They could tell him a few of your team members were discussing taking you to the hospital. Or they could keep him from driving the car through the wall in order to meet you there. The decision was clear, they needed him to focus on driving. “She’s okay, she's currently being looked at by the medical team.”

“She has the medical team on her?!” Will’s eyes shut hard as Lando’s reply came through. Definitely not the right choice of words.

“Just a precaution Lando, she isn’t well at the moment.”

Lando’s bottom lip catches between his teeth as he ponders his engineer's words. He finds himself over analyzing every syllable, every infliction with intentions of unpacking whatever truth was seeping between the lines, and he notices that he’s biting his cheek as he rounds the 8th corner with a little less precision than usual. “Is she bad?”

Landos team take quick note of this change in pace, latching onto the clear oversteer he performs around the corner. They quickly find themselves trying to pull away from the topic in order to keep him both figuratively and literally on track and so Will concludes the conversation with a stern tone. “Please Lando, you can see her when you're done racing. We need you to focus on the race.”

He almost wanted to curse the man out purely due to frustration despite knowing deep down that he was right. But what else was he supposed to do when he knows his fiancé is sitting in the medic bay and all he can do to support her is… well, nothing. He just has to finish this race.

Despite your protests, your team was adamant on a visit to the med bay in order to possibly come up with a reason for your sudden onset of race ending symptoms, and after a quick trip down the hall that took a little longer than usual due to your need to stop once more, you were simply told there wasn’t much they could do long term to crack the bilous case. Shocker. They did however hand you something to ease the nausea which you were beyond thankful for.

You had spent so long counting down the seconds until the anti-nausea medication kicked in that you hadn't even noticed that the race had ended, nor did you notice the approaching sound of hasteful footsteps until the door to your driver's room came barrelling open with a thud.

“I told you not to race.” Lando’s voice was so stern it had you stiff. There was a slight indication of anger lingering behind his words but ultimately his face was a dead giveaway to the worried intention etched behind his tone. 

“I thought I’d be okay.”

“You threw up?” His eyebrows came down as he said it, and you noticed it was less of a question and more as if he was trying to confirm a suspicion. Someone from your team must have snitched on you already. No damn loyalties.

“Only a little.” Your words were sheepish.

“You stink.” He deadpanned and you found yourself scoffing, slightly exasperated at the bluntness of his words. The statement had you petty with offense. 

“You don’t smell very good either-”

“-I don’t smell like vomit.”

Finally you let out a sigh, already tired of the back and forth over something so menial, and unworthy of an argument. You were sick. Shit happens. “Lando, I wasn’t feeling well and I’d been feeling it all week with no real problem so I didn’t think there would be a reason to sit this race out. I didn’t think I would actually need to pull over. It’s done now.”

There was a loud silence between the two of you as he onced over your body with intentful eyes. You seemed okay enough and he guessed this really wasn’t the time or place to start an argument, especially over something as stupid as him being worried about you, you were on the same damn side. So instead he just sighed, bit his lip and nodded at you. “Alright.”

“Guys.” Charlotte suddenly peaked her head through the cracked door to glance at you both. “Come on, we need you at Media now.”

This wasn’t going to be easy, that you knew. The media had given you a hard time for things way less than this so you could only imagine what they had in store for you after throwing up on live TV for half the world to see moments after a voluntary DNF. It just about felt like you were being led to your execution with the way you knew they were about to tear into you. But there was no avoiding this, and the grimaced look etched into your features left Lando very aware of this fact.

“I know you don’t wanna do this but you have to go out there, you’ve got no choice. Not unless you’re willing to cop a fat fine.”

You stuck an eyebrow up at Landos voice, the sides of your lips extending out as you conceptualized his words but your expression quickly had him shaking his head alongside a hearty laugh. “No, no. Don’t even look like you’re considering it.”

Your laugh to match his own soon sounded throughout the room, and his hand swiftly found its place at the nape of your neck, to which he gave a quick squeeze and began leading you out the door into the McLaren garage hallway. “We have a wedding to plan and that means a lot of money to spend. You will not be wasting money trying to get out of media duties.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at how exasperated and sarcastic he sounded.

You both found yourselves trailing along Charlotte's path until the hallway quickly opened up into a large room where a few other drivers had already begun their own separate interviews towards the camera crews which littered every corner. The media pen; may as well be your death site.

Whilst waiting for the race to end; and for the nausea to subside, Charlotte had given you a rundown - more like a lecture; regarding what to expect and how to approach the inevitably condescending questions that would soon be thrown your way. 

This was going to be brutal, you knew that. You had finally made a mistake that the male media could exploit to reinforce their stereotypes about damned women in motorsports. Just another day facing the misogyny of the position, except this time, it was your own carelessness that put you in this position. The only damned thing you’d be was a damned liar if you said the upcoming articles tearing into you weren’t already gnawing at your mind. You could just picture it;

‘’Mclaren Princess’ Just Might Throw Her Way Up and Out of Competitive Driving,’

‘Speed Queen’s Weak Stomach Shows Why She’s Better Suited for Other Races,’

‘Too Glamorous For The F1 Track? or Maybe Not Glamorous Enough; - maybe we should leave the fast cars to the men that made them.’ 

This might just be worse than the ‘Revving Engines, not Emotions,’ article from last year when you teared up in Australia after what was the most frustrating race of your career. This was going to be horrible. 

Your actions were always hyper-criticized, but maybe just once you were being too imaginative for your own good. You needed to calm down because words tended to stick with you. A fact that Charlotte knew all too well, because she was sure to speak words she knew would ring through your ears during those interviews; Take it on the chin, stay composed and certainly don't be snappy. One of those was doable.

The moment you passed the threshold beyond the doorway, officially crossing into the media pen, it's as if every set of eyes and every lens of a camera had turned to watch you move. The room hadn’t by any means gone quiet, but there was definitely a shift in volume as the noise settled from a near unbearable buzz to a tolerable chatter, just enough to notice the change. The influx of attention almost had you doubling over once again, especially when you felt the nausea begin to slowly creep up for the second time that day. But you made notable efforts to keep your head high, hoping that a strong demeanor would at least soften the blow which would soon be dealt.

Lando’s arm had split from your neck not long after entering the room. You guys were always light on your PDA, trying to keep as much of your personal relationship as private as possible; as private as an already public relationship could possibly be. But he still managed to give you a small, reassuring squeeze on the hip before you both set off, being led in opposite directions.

A flurry of reporter eyes seemed to trail your path as your personal PR manager led you to a spot right in between Carlos and Charles, and as you started setting yourself up, you unavoidably overheard their journalists trying to wrap up their interviews, which you could only imagine would be to get a shot at you faster. 

However unluckily for those journalists, it seems your first adversary had already taken the stand just directly across from you with a large, heavy mic and aged, gleaming eyes; eyes that had your own widening in alarm. You were quite familiar with this journalist, very familiar with him actually as he had always been quick to criticize you and your skills on many occasions in the past. He was quite ill-mannered towards you, definitely holding a target out with a gun aimed directly for your career, making it clear he was disapproving of your presence as a woman on this grid. You just knew he had been waiting for you. This was going to be hell.

The journalist quickly began setting himself up, the cameraman behind him pointing the lens directly at your sour face, which you admittedly were not doing a great job at masking. Though, if your interviewer had noticed, he thankfully hadn’t commented on it. However that didn’t stop him from wasting any time beginning to comment on the other mistakes you had made today.

“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Speed Queen.” His gravelly voice spat. “Though I think ‘Pit Princess’ may be a little more fitting after today's race.” A sly smirk quickly spread across his mouth, an act that had your hands bracing against the railing separating the two of you from one another. Charles had quickly taken notice of this from his position just beside you. He admittedly felt he was doing quite well at remaining professional and ignoring the exchange between you and the infamous journalist, but now he was on high alert, ears perked in your direction with the intention of intervening at any given moment.

Despite your peeved sentiment, you did well at keeping your face straight and head high at the insult, feeling it necessary to not crack in front of the person trying to get a reaction out of you. Don’t prove his point. 

“I appreciate the creativity, but I think I would prefer to focus on the race itself rather than nicknames. I’m quite happy with the one I have.” There was a moment in which he tried to intervene, however you were determined to move past the subject. “-And, you know, today’s challenges were significant, but that’s a part of the sport, I guess.” Despite the lingering nausea, you still managed to force a professional smile.

“Is it?” He curled an eyebrow condescendingly, a look which nearly had a scowl slipping past your placid facade. But instead you held strong, that sickeningly sweet smile dripping like honey with disdain. “Part of the sport is the unpredictability of it. So I’d say so.”

The man's eyes gleamed on, a small hum escaping his lips as he nodded absently. “It’s just that no other driver seems to have this issue. Do you think maybe your choice to retire has to do with particular limitations a female might have that the men in this sport don’t?”

And as expected, the indirectness wasn’t so indirect anymore, the true misogynistic intentions of his words slowly crept out with ferocity. 

“No.” Your tone was final, like it hadn’t ever crossed your mind, because it really hadn’t. “No I really don’t. Many men before me have gotten sick during races, I guess I just preferred to voluntarily take myself out of the race than spend the rest of it wiping pesto off my visor.” You snarled. 

A small tap against your arm quickly alerted you to the contention of your PR manager, a disapproving gesture silently advising you to reel it in. But god was it hard when his face was so smug. She should understand that being passive aggressive was much more admissible than being violent, so she may as well let you get your anger out in the socially acceptable way, though you admit it was strange of you to feel so angry. You were usually better at keeping your emotions in check. Hm. But alas, you complied, correcting your face and letting him speak; even if you wanted so badly to interrupt him with your thoughts of how horrible a journalist he was. 

“Well, I think a lot of people agree when I say that this sport tends to reward determination and resilience, not quitting.”

Were you hearing this correctly? Was he really implying that you should have thrown up right into your helmet and just continued through the race like nothing? It was getting really hard to remain socially acceptable. What was this new found anger? “Racing may sometimes reward resilience, however, being sharp minded is more important sometimes. I noticed I was unwell enough for it to affect my performance, so I decided it was smarter to take myself out of the race. Especially after nearly taking Carlos out of the race too.” 

Just as you finished answering the (absurd) question, a suave laugh sounded to your left as Carlos suddenly stepped up beside you, sliding his arm across your shoulder. “I did have some choice words prepared for you earlier Mija, but then I learnt what happened and now I forgive you.” His eyes suddenly turned to the journalist, a glint of exaggerated pity in relation to the topic seeping into his expression, almost as if he was speaking with experience to someone who wouldn’t understand; because he was. “Driving whilst sick is not for the weak.”

The journalist's cold eyes squinted slightly as Carlos’ condescending tone registered in his head, yet he kept his expression neutral and mic high as he nodded. “I’m sure it isn’t.” And nothing was said after that. No rebuttal, no argumentative comment, just a plea of agreement. God, how you wished interviews were that easy for you.

A few voices echoing out from somewhere behind had caught the attention of the trio, and it didn’t take long for you to realize it was Carlos’ team instructing him to move onwards to his next position. So with a reassuring smile towards you and a quick quirk of a brow towards the reporter, he was off to his next interview without another word, taking your fleeting moment of security along with him as he left.

Now it was just you and the reporter once more, and you could tell he wasn’t feeling as cordial with you as he was with Carlos, evident by the slight snarl that had crept onto his face by the interruption in your defense. “Friendly words from Sainz there, as always.” he began, his tone dripping with insincerity, “Do you find it degrading that other drivers always have to come to your defense in order to keep your positive reputation, because there are a lot of people that believe you perhaps, ride off the success of others.” 

Your stomach twisted, and if it was from the nausea growing once again or from the sheer audacity of his words, you couldn’t tell. He was essentially implying that the only reason people liked you was because other likable people vouched for you, and not because of your own hard work and valiant achievements. It seems he wanted defense, you were about to show him just how defensive you could be. 

“With all due respect,” you began, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “I don’t defend myself because I don’t have to, because the genuinity of my character extends far past my words.” you paused, thinking about your next words carefully. “My peers defend me because I’ve proven my capabilities time and time again, and they know that one incident doesn’t define my career. However, I don’t think you share the same sentiment, hm?” 

The taunting in your voice was quickly caught on by your PR manager who swiftly grabbed your arm in yet another warning, except this time you couldn’t find it in yourself to care as much. The journalist's eyes narrowed at your words, clearly not expecting such a discourteous response and the tugging of your PR manager's grip against your arm was an obvious nonverbal message to wrap it up but you weren't finished, oh no. That new found anger that had been gnawing at you all race was just beginning to trickle out.

“‘Riding off the success of others.’” Your quoted, voice riddled with humor, “And yet you somehow manage to find me every post race interview. Do you write these question’s down in your little notebook while you watch my multi-race winning car fly past you? Or do you wipe the dust from the camera lens instead?”

He quickly opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, your PR manager intervened, her grip on your arm tightening slightly as she stepped forward. “This interview is over,” she announced firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. “McLaren will be utalizing the next few days to help Y/n recover for next week's race. If you have any further questions, you can direct them to our media office.”

Your eyes widened in shock at the intervention. You had overstepped your media training a few times before and yet none had ever led to the end of the interview. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little surprised at your PR manager's swift movements as she tugged you back and away from the journalist. “Let’s move on.” Her voice was disapproving but she was obviously trying to remain calm and professional, understanding there was a job to be done. But your anger wasn’t discriminatory, everyone was a potential outlet, and you weren’t having this. “No, I’m finished.” You didn’t even want to participate in media in the first place, this was obligatory. You had done your part and now you were taking charge of the rest of your night. And so you pulled your arm back and made quick haste towards the exit, leading back to your driver room. 

You were only a few meters from the door now, acutely aware of all the eyes watching you retire early from yet another obligation today, when a hand grazing the small of your back pulled you away from the tormenting feeling of the bile rising once again. This time, it was Charles, his sweet face beaming a reassuring smile at you as he began walking in stride towards the exit alongside you. “Mon cheri, that was something else.” 

You couldn’t help but scoff at his words, nausea bubbling once again, expecting yet another lecture from someone else. “If by ‘something else’ you mean a complete disaster, then yeah, I guess.”

Charles kept his tone steady, a touch of amusement in his voice as you both walked in stride. “No, I mean you handled it with a lot of, uhh.. What is the English? Poise.” 

You gave him a skeptical look. “Thanks, but it didn’t feel like handling things with poise, It felt like I was about to lose it.” 

His smile slipped into a small laugh before it fell,  and his bright eyes quickly turned into one’s of worry as he began a once over of your body. “Are you feeling okay?” he began the inevitable conversation. “I’m okay, it’ll pass I'm sure.”

Charles’ brows furrowed down, thick accent sounding with worry as he spoke. “You shouldn’t count on it passing, you should take care of yourself. You’re only gonna have more shit thrown at you if you don’t-”

As sweet as his concern was, you were tired of this conversation today, it was becoming tedious to hear and you really just needed to lie down or something. “-Charles, I really appreciate it and I'll be sure to visit the doctor tomorrow, but I think I’m gonna be sick again, so how about you cover me up to the hallway before I end up in another fight with a reporter, or my head in another bin on TV.”

Your words had Charles’s eyes widening, quickly glancing around from side to side in search of his target who was finishing up from an interview of his own, when your hand came up to press against your mouth, skin turning a tinge green. “Lando!”

The video shook a little as the person on the other end fidgeted with the camera, a slight blur shifting the image and the audio cracking with the movement before the frame finally straightened up. The person took a step back. It was you, which wasn’t all that surprising considering the video had been uploaded onto your own instagram, but it was the first anyone had really heard of you in weeks. 

Ever since your race ending ailment back in Spain, you had essentially gone radio silent. Not posting, not participating in interviews; you had missed 2 more races since then. It was worrisome, especially considering you had assured everyone the day after Spain that you were working on getting better for next week's race, which you never showed up to. 

The races went on and the fans asked about you, the interviewers asked about you too, but it seemed everyone involved in the FIA had no comment on your whereabouts nor your condition. The drivers dodged post interview questions, excelling on to new subjects and only had quick fleeting comments in response to concerned fans around the paddock who were only trying to make sense of it all.

Lando copped the brunt end of it though, scoring a P2 podium in Canada that everyone could more obviously care less about in his post-race interviews. The only topic mentioned was you, your absence from the race and why everyone was so hush-hush about it in the first place. The interviews were so off topic that this time it was Lando who had to leave the media pen early to avoid the questions, though opposingly, McLaren had been the ones to encourage his swift exit.

It was starting to become an issue. People were fretful. Were you still sick? Was it something more serious than you had anticipated and now you couldn’t race anymore?

The view they were looking at suggested that perhaps they were about to find out. 

You retreated away from the camera propped up against what people could only speculate had to be your dressing table, as you found your spot upon the large, luxurious bed the camera was pointing towards. Now cross legged upon it, your body clad in a 2 piece short silky pajama set, finally you began to speak. 

“Hello everyone.” You didn’t sound unwell, not stressed or upset. In fact, there was an edge to your voice that almost seemed cheerful; excited. And yet for now you remained composed, nothing but a small, media trained smile dawning your otherwise expressionless face.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The sentence was humorous, calling attention to the silence you had afflicted, and the lack of news upon your whereabouts. “Lando and I are finally home in Monaco for summer break, though I have to admit that I’ve actually been in Monaco for a few weeks now. I think some of you might feel that was a bit obvious given my absence.”

There was a high pitched chuckle off screen, it obviously being Lando out of frame as your eyes flickered over to the side with a playful yet mischievous smile, encouraging his reaction with your expression. It was a fleeting moment as your smile once again fell into something a little more vacant before straightening up and continuing. “I know a lot of people have questions, and I do want to apologize for the lack of communication on my end, I’ll explain, I promise but first I also want to say please don’t be mad at any of the other drivers for not speaking out, they were all just respecting my wishes in not saying anything until I was ready.”

There was a small pause as you took a breath, no sound emitting except for the slight breeze wafting through the room, further exemplified by the sway of the sheer curtains. This was so nerve racking, were you about to announce your departure from motorsport? Were you about to reveal a sickness you weren't aware of until now? The silence, though short lived, was deafening. 

“I-” Finally you spoke, but quickly caught it with a bite to your lower lip. It really seemed like you were processing your words, debating how to present your next statement carefully enough. “How do I-?”

Once again your gaze drifted off to the side of the screen, confused and cautious eyes quickly averting into a bright smile before a laugh escaped your mouth. “Don’t look so excited!” 

Lando, obviously beaming, clear by the tone of his voice, cheerfully yelled back, “Do you want me to say it?!”

“No!” you rebutted quickly with a laugh, “I told you I wanted to be the one to announce it, stop trying to take my shine!”

“Then go on with it!” He was so obviously really excited, impatient to finally announce whatever it was that had him so elevated.

“Okay well-” You stuttered for a moment, quickly catching yourself before continuing. “As many of you saw in Spain, I wasn’t feeling too well,-”

“-Hard to miss-.” Landos voice mumbled, a comment in which you swiftly ignored.  

“-And I hadn’t been for a few days leading up to it but I just took it as a stomach bug and planned to go on with it like usual. What I didn’t plan for however, was the doctor's visit I was forced to go to the day after.”

Your eyes glared off to the side once again, feigning annoyance but evidently not actually upset before looking back at the camera with a smile. “The good news is that we are very much aware of what was making me sick.” Your voice was reassuring, eyes slowly beginning to light up as you continued on. “The bad news is that I unfortunately will not be participating in the rest of the 2024 season, or the 2025 one for that matter.”

It was like you could feel the impending shock of everyone watching radiating through the screen despite it being pre recorded because your pause was almost comically dramatic. And yet it was so wholly conflicting, because regardless of the awful news, you didn’t really seem all that upset despite being such a passionate racer, it felt so out of character. This confusion was only exemplified further when your eyes once again drifted to the left, a large smile engulfing your features as you took notice of what had to be Lando's excited expression once more. “Oh don’t look so happy, you’re the one who still gets to race!”

“I’m sorry!” He laughed that high pitched laugh he does when he just can’t hold it back.

Your eyes flickered back to the camera, sitting straight on with a patient yet humorous smile, a single eyebrow cocked as you waited for Landos laughter to simmer. It took a moment, a moment you thought ended a time or two before he began again, but eventually the room became still again as your face grew just a little more in adoration towards the man everyone could see you loved dearly. It was like the energy had shifted just a little, from what felt so playful before, to something a little more familial and warm. 

“I think some of you may have put the pieces together, but for those who haven’t. Well… I’m pregnant!” Your smile was so big and sheepish, so conscious and just a little shy, it almost felt as if you were announcing it to a friend of many years and it was all just so heartwarming. You were okay! More than that, you were happy, and soon everyone else who would watch this video would be too. Lando's happy laugh from beyond the camera at the announcement finally being made was more than enough to express just how joyous the news was for the two of you.

“As heartbreaking as it will be to not be able to competitively race in the upcoming seasons, I’m not actually that sad about having to step down for a little.” You laughed heartily. “I proudly announce that in my place, the very talented Australian driver Oscar Piastri will be filling my position until I'm off from… maternity leave? I guess. That's a first for this sport.”  You laughed.  “But of course they just had to find the best to replace the best.” You quickly glanced over towards Lando out of frame, clearly expecting an agreement that never came. They could only imagine the disapproving look Lando was sending you.

Your expression never changed, but your tone dropped as you spoke darkly. “I’m carrying your child.” You spat, to which a loud “But of course!” sounded in response, followed by a laugh from the both of you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll still be seeing me around the track a lot considering this muppet,” you pointed to your left, “still gets to race.”

“Don’t be jealous,” the soft voice came from off screen. 

“No, I’ll confidently admit it, I’m so jealous.” You pouted, but the warmth in your eyes belied the playful tone in your voice.

Lando’s hand appeared in the frame for a brief moment, gently squeezing your shoulder before disappearing off-camera again. “We’ll be back out there together soon enough.”

You nodded, your smile returning as you glanced back at the camera, feeling a surge of excitement for what was to come. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to supporting the team from a different angle. It’s going to be a new experience, but I’m excited to do this as…”

“-As a mother?” Lando finished with a knowing smirk.

“As a mother.” You laughed, a loud one from Lando soon sounded to match your own, one so joyous it left you beaming. Suddenly, Lando jolted in frame, clearly excited as he leaned over the bed to tackle you from your sitting position down into a hug, leaving you both falling back onto the sheets. “Oh my god Lando!” You shout, a hand quickly moving to shield your lower stomach. “God! Nevermind guys, I think Lando just tackled the baby out of me, guess I’ll be seeing you all from my McLaren in Austria.”

“Oh!” Lando gasped. “Not funny!” 

[3amfanfiction]

What is your favorite trope woth each CoD guy?

I love favorite tropes. Okay so starting off strong we have:

John Price who I love to see in the exhusband role (the one where everything works out in the end ofc). Give me a John who fought but conceded when you insisted on a divorce. Irreconcilable differences.

But you wouldn't be able to tell from the outside looking in because he doesn't change his actions at all. Still does the yardwork for you every weekend, goes to the grocery store and stocks your fridge, you'd better not leave out a to-do list that you're meaning to get to bc that man will see it sitting on the counter and take it as orders.

And heaven help you if you come home stressed and anxious and he happens to be there (you've taken his key three times, how does he keep getting in?) bc he's pulling you to the bedroom and proceeding to work every bit of stress out of your system enthusiastically. You're going to be a wobbly-kneed foal by the time he's done with you.

And then we have Kyle Garrick who I love to read in the 'everything he's saying could be true but he could also be spinning it to keep you from acting out'. This is a little darker but I love when reader is kidnapped/forcefully relocated through extenuating circumstances and the reasoning he gives could technically be true. But it could also be a line, used to keep you manageable.

Bc he's so pretty and he's so well spoken that surely he wouldn't lie to you. And what he's saying makes so much sense, how could it not be true? All the while he's facilitating things that corroborate his story, pulling you in deeper and deeper until you don't even think of running away anymore.

Johnny MacTavish? Breeding kink breeding kink breeding kink. That man was raised catholic and he wants his own house filled with the pitter-patter of tiny feet. He wants chaos in his home and he's not above a little stealthing to make sure it happens. Give me a man who wants (fictional) babies with me so badly that he would do anything to see it through.

And finally Simon Riley who I'm unafraid to say is my favorite and who I love in any role he plays. But my favorite is when he's half of a ghoap pairing, being so good-naturedly dominant and letting Soap have his lead, running around and getting in trouble while he follows behind and glares at anyone who might upset his boy.

And then Johnny does something silly like kidnapping you and bringing you home as a present (after he spends a little one-on-one time with you first ofc). Then here comes this mountain of a man, looking at poor little kidnapped you, all teary-eyed and pleading and Johnny--grinning like a cat that caught the canary. Proudly showing off his new toy.

Simon who takes it all in with a slow blink before slotting you into their lives like you'd always been there, no you can't leave pet, this is your home now.

[cakypa120]

Shazamfamily liked Epic the musical, but when they put all of the JL to watch it, or even when they do it themselves, some of the gods are constantly saying somethings that actually happened or corroborating the story Infront of them.

The Shazamily really like the musical Epic. So they decide to show it to everyone else in the League. They manage to do it at a bonding night.

Bruce: Epic? I've heard something about it.

Billy: Yeah, it's a musical about the adventures of Odysseus.

Barry: Is that the one who blinded the Cyclops?

Billy: Yeah. That's him.

The Troy Saga

Bruce: I gotta hand it to him, he wanted to raise him as his own.

Barry: Zeus is a bastard. No offense, Diana.

Diana: My dad wasn't a very good God then.

Clark: Marvel, is this all true?

Billy: Pure, and if anything is different, I'll tell you.

Eugene: Sometimes it's good to have Gods in your head.

Hal: You know, I think Politec is going to die.

Oliver: It's obvious!

Dinah: One more word out of your mouth and I'll throw you off the wall myself.

Hal and Oliver: Yes, ma'am.

The Cyclops Saga

Hal: I told you so!

Dinah:*punches him in the stomach*

Bruce: It's stupid to tell a Cyclops your name. It won't end well.

Darla: Zeus said Poseidon got really mad.

Clark: Really?

Pedro: Sure. Injuring a child of a God was insulting the God himself. The punishment was murder.

Barry: Shit, do we have to wait for Zeus to go on a rampage over Diana?

Billy: No. Time passes and Gods change. Including Zeus. He's a jerk though.

Zeus: Hey!

Achilles: He's right.

Atlas: Should I remind you about all your kids?

The Ocean Saga

Bruce: I told you.

Hal: Yeah, yeah, Spooky, we know how smart you are.

Clark: Poseidon is really mad.

Mary: Yeah.

Barry: What Aeolus said scared me.

J'onn: It's a god. Of course his words are a warning.

Solomon: Not everything the gods say means anything. Sometimes it's just crap.

Zeus: Why do I feel attacked?

The Circe Saga

Billy: Did you know that Odysseus is Hermes' great-grandson?

Bruce: Is that why he helped?

Freddy: No. Because he was bored.

Clark: How did he know that?

Darla: He told us himself. We have dinner with him sometimes.

The Underworld Saga

Barry: I feel so sorry for his mother! *cries bitter tears*

Diana: *comforts him*

Hal: Why wasn't Hades here?

Billy: He was swamped with work. He said there wasn't even room for a dropped needle. So many people died.

J'onn: I'm interested in the words the choir sang in the background of Tiresias' prophecy.

Bruce: I'm more interested in the prophecy itself.

Clark: It bothers me that Odysseus is becoming a monster.

Billy: What can you do? The gods make people change.

The Thunder saga

Barry: Why didn't they listen to him?!

Hal: Zeus was flirting with a cloud?!

Diana: My dad's not that perverted.

Billy:*puts his hand on Diana's shoulder* I have bad news for you, sister.

Eugene: By the way, it wasn't rain.

Hal and Barry: Stop talking!!

Zeus: I wanted to seem really dangerous.

Hercules: Stop making excuses.

Oliver: They could have easily lost six people, but they had to screw up like that.

Bruce: I can understand them.

Oliver: But can't justify it.

The Wisdom Saga

Bruce: Odysseus didn't cheat on his wife?

Zeus: Lie! Blatant lie! He had an affair with Calypso! And they even had two children!

Hercules: Compared to you, he's more faithful than any dog.

Achilles: Agreed. Everyone knows what a womanizer you are.

Billy: He had an affair with Calypso.

Barry: Then why did Hera decide to let him go?

Darla: She and Athena are friends. So...

Hal: And Zeus?

Billy: Athena is his favorite daughter.

Zeus: That's not true!

Hercules: Don't lie. Everyone knows that Athena is your favorite.

Solomon: You don't even hide it.

Bruce: Athena definitely has a favorite.

Clark: What she said about the bloodshed in Odysseus' house worries me.

Oliver: I would kill those pathetic suitors too.

The Vengeance Saga

Hal: Holy shit!!!

Barry: Tell me he actually did that!!

Billy: Yeah, he did. It's not shown much, but he landed exactly six hundred punches. I swear you can still see those scars on Poseidon.

Bruce: Why was Hermes dancing on the raft?

Mary: He was bored.

Clark: How did Zeus react to his brother being attacked?

Pedro: He literally laughed. He still reminds Poseidon of that when he wants to be a piece of shit.

Zeus: I admit. It's true. His face is so funny.

The Ithaca Saga

Oliver: Why is the suitors' song so beautiful and so terrible at the same time?!

Diana: Now I understand why Ares has a portrait of Odysseus hanging in his room. Such carnage.

Jonn: Isn't Penelope brilliant?

Bruce: I agree. That's pretty clever. Maybe me should have a similar competition for my daughters' hands?

Oliver: I'll help you set it up.

Barry: *cries since the reunion between father and son. The last song finished him off and he turned into a puddle of tears and snot*

Hal: *tries to help Barry come to his senses, although he himself is crying*

Dinah: That's wonderful.

Clark: I agree. Thanks for introducing us to this musical.

Shazamily: You're welcome!! We're glad you liked it.

[fideidefenswhore]

genuinely, that sort of reaction would make a lot more sense had her first child been born dead.

is it weird to anyone else that in tudor shows/novels, the white rose/aragonese/marian faction circa september 1533 is always like ‘thank god, god has abandoned her’ re: the birth of a living daughter…

[theminecraftbee]

After he's done listening to the Archeologist's story, the Sheriff frowns.

"Well, that's not fair, is it?" Jimmy says.

"Fair?" Pix responds.

"Yeah, fair. It's not--it's not fair at all! You can't just end it with--they try to be friends for, for the first time ever. And the Codfather gets respect and the Count gets more mature. And they shake hands and, and share magic and stuff. But it turns out them being friends causes the end of the world? That's not fair! That's not a good story at all!" Jimmy says.

Pixlriffs shrugs. "I didn't make it up. It's what's been passed down, and the Ancient Capitol corroborates it to some extent. The Rapture was a very real event in the geological record, and what historical records survive from the Twelve Kingdoms era suggests at the very least some kind of symbolic rivalry between cod and salmon. Maybe a religious one? It's really all quite fascinating."

"Well, yes, but it's not really literal, that religion stuff, right?" Jimmy says. "I mean, uh, I don't know much about all this stuff, but it's like--don't tell Sausage, but Santa Pearla, she's not literal, right? She's like, the idea of the cycle of death and life and all that, but--"

"Recent excavations actually suggest that Empress Pearl was a real historical figure," Pixlriffs says excitedly. "I mean, it seems rather unlikely she caused all the fields in the Twelve Kingdoms to remain fertile until the Rapture on her own, but the number of statues and records we've found even today suggest that she was still a real person!"

Jimmy is silent. He crosses his arms and stares at Pixlriffs until, finally, Pix stops talking.

"It's still not fair," Jimmy says.

"It's not about being fair, it's about what actually happened," Pix says.

"Because the story as I told it went that they made friends to try to make the best of the rapture. And though all the rivers had dried up, the Codfather and the Count laid seeds in the desert, until one day we could go and build our towns there safe, because their seeds made a pond. And, er, that's not all literal either, you know? None of this is really--sorta like Joel is not literally a god, that'd be stupid," Jimmy says.

"Right," Pixlriffs says, nodding. "But we don't tell him that."

"But we don't tell him that," Jimmy agrees. "And I'm just saying that--it's not fair, saying that making up their differences is what made the world end. That's like, like if the moral was that we shouldn't bother even trying."

"I think you'll make yourself sad, looking for a moral in ruins," Pixlriffs says.

Jimmy swallows.

"That's stupid," he says. "That's stupid."

"That's life."

"And it's stupid. I'm going to go bother Joel."

"Good luck with that."

The Sheriff rides away. The Archeologist watches after him for a long time before sighing.

"...and good luck ending this one differently," he says, and he goes back to his dig.

[toshn]

mark grayson: “i don't want you to go—“

— contents: spending time with mark before he leaves for a mission. — from the author: i kinda had a like superhero!reader in mind because why not. but it’s totally fine if u imagine reader as just a civilian. i'll also try to post more often! c:

“i hate getting sandy feet.”

you whined, the sunset’s glow reflecting on the ocean’s surface, leaving traces of its’ warmth on your face in its’ wake. you could feel the waves crashing right in front of you, gently caressing your legs before returning back into its' vast sea of blue.

you were at the beach with mark, and you had the place all to yourselves. you two decided to spend the whole day together and make the most out of the time he has left before going on a crazy space alien mission. you knew this mission could take weeks—months even, and this would mean you'd be mark-deprived for more than just the usual couple of days due to college. you always told mark you understood his situation, and you really did. after all, he had some big shoes to fill in. because of the distraught and calamity omni-man left behind on earth, you could sense the underlying guilt mark had because of what his father did. you knew deep down he was trying to atone for everything he caused, even if he never outright told you so.

mark laughed, lifting a hand up to splash water onto you, “stop being such big baby.”

you groaned as the feeling of saltwater dripping from your hair stuck onto the cool surface of your skin. you rolled your eyes, turning away from mark with a pout. subconsciously, you've been counting the days until mark would embark on his mission—and it's not like you wanted to. you've been avoiding doing so because you knew how much of a crybaby you could get when it comes to goodbyes, and you weren't exactly fond with the idea of crying in a public area. but no matter how hard you tried to think of something funny to renounce the tears pricking from the corners of your eyes, you felt them burn. burn from the upcoming wave of emotions you were trying so hard to bury. and unwillingly—your lips began to quiver.

with your back against him, mark, with his eyes as sharp as ever, could see the subtle shudder of your shoulders and a quiet sniffle he could never miss erupt from your hunched figure. he hurriedly swam his way towards you with a worried expression on his face, the sounds of waves spattering with each step he took. “(y/n)? what’s wrong?“

mark came face to face with you, his eyes growing wide the moment you turned around. the sunset's orange hues gave your hair the perfect glow, your eyes—already going red with tears threatening to spill at any moment, shined alongside your wet cheeks—stained by saltwater, your nose tinted red, and your lips were shaking like a leaf rustling against the wind. you were about to cry. and despite the fact that you were, you looked breathtaking, mark concluded.

“i-“ you stuttered, a teardrop you so desperately tried to keep in, finally fell onto your salty cheeks, “i d-don’t want,” you gasped out with a soft sob and furrowed your eyebrows in frustration. it was so hard to speak right now, you didn't want to look so pathetic on the day before he left, you didn't want to end the day on a bad note. but your aching heart said otherwise. mark felt a tug at his heartstrings as he watched you try your absolute best to talk. and for a moment, he saw you scrunch your nose before breathing out a shaky “i-i don’t want you to go.”

finally, you were able to corroborate a coherent sentence without sputtering over the tears that were streaming down your face like an endless river, your saltwater-tainted hands rubbing against your cheek. mark's face fell to one of relief, he thought it was something worse—he thought he something went wrong. he hurriedly tried to gently pry your hands away before any of it could reach your eyes.

“(y/n),” he cooed, “i’ll be back as soon as i can, promise.” going against what he just attempted to avoid, he held your face in his salty hands and cradled your cheeks with such care and love. amidst your blurry vision, you could make out, although not the best, of the look he had on his face. mark looked at you so tenderly—as if you were to break at any moment with how fragile you are, and it just fueled your wailing as you poured your heart out in his grasp.

while you continued to cry, mark pulled you into his arms. his heat radiating off you like you were hugging the sunset yourself. your hands clawed at his soaked t-shirt—desperate to find the solace you’ll always find within mark as your face nestled in the crook of his neck. he smelled salty, you thought to yourself, as the tears that once racked your body began to dissipate. and as you watched the sun slowly disappear further down the horizon, you felt mark place a kiss on the crown of your head, a gesture you've always loved no matter the situation you’re in. you pulled yourself away, albeit begrudgingly—from his warm embrace to look at him, still sniveling.

looking into his loving eyes, you felt the cool wind enveloped yours and mark's hugging figure, the sound of the breeze blowing against your bare skin. mark opened his lips to speak, inadvertently making you pry your eyes away from his.

“i'll come back home. wait for me, okay?"

@ toshn, pls do not steal or ur cheeks will!! be clapped.